Sick
by ArianaKristine
Summary: AU 3B. There's too many things going on in Emma Swan's life. Of course she'd get sick.


**Title**: Sick

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Once Upon a Time or its characters.

**Rating**: K+

**Summary**: Prompted from Tumblr. "Post-curse Neal and Hook fighting to prove themselves to Emma while Graham lets her have her space without the pi**ing contest (everyone in town has a team and no one really knows Huntsman is in the running). Graham is the only one who notices when she gets sick and tries to hide it. Brings her soup or something and Emma responds putting everyone else in their place."

**Notes**: I, of course, had to make a few changes to make this work. First, Neal is up and walking around. Second, the curse brought back Graham. Third, they have some time to process before Zelena really starts in on them.

* * *

Emma had never been more stressed.

Coming back to Storybrooke after a year in New York was disorienting enough. Hook had been following her around like a puppy ever since he had upset their life. Once Neal was found, he had delved straight back into the "trying to win her back" mode that had put her on edge the last time. All in the middle of fighting an unknown villain, trying to keep Henry safe and ignorant, and dealing with her parents' pregnancy.

So, when she found that the curse had restored Graham's life as well, she had absolutely snapped.

She had retreated into a little bubble of solitude, only letting Henry in. Henry wasn't at all aware of anything going on, though, and thus was mostly confused at why his mom suddenly was not speaking with anyone in a town she had decided to make their vacation destination.

Slowly, she had come around again. She had begun piecing together clues about the new curse. She had taken more time with Mary Margaret and David, as they cautiously introduced her to the idea of being a sibling. She had let Hook tell her all the information he had accumulated, and attempted to blatantly ignore his allusions to the way he felt. She had let Neal come close to Henry again, but with a fair amount of supervision since Henry was confused as it was; this had become synonymous with Neal's lingering looks and accidental touches when she was around. It had become increasingly uncomfortable, but she bore it all for her son, to give him everything he could ever want.

The only thing she couldn't do was get near Graham again. As heavily as his shoelace felt on her wrist, she couldn't manage to even look at him, much less speak with him. He was being accepting of it all, staying on the fringes, mediating with the others instead, and only helping when he was truly needed. Yet, somehow, that made it worse, to have him so close but still so far.

Hook and Neal? They were still fighting against one another to win her attention.

She had mostly managed to keep them at bay, but she could hear the whispers. Apparently, everyone in town had an opinion on who she should be with. Her mother kept pressing her toward Neal. The midwife kept pressing her toward Hook. Granny held her crossbow in front of her chest anytime the pirate got near her. And Leroy balled his fists at any sight of Neal.

She was frustrated beyond all reason. They had no say on her love life. Hell, she didn't even think she could manage a love life in the middle of this chaos. That didn't stop everyone from thinking otherwise.

_You deserve a happy ending, Emma, and happy endings always start with hope._

It was early morning, the pounding of a migraine starting behind her eyes. She rolled over in bed, shivering. Something woke her. She listened for a moment, trying to figure out why she felt so exhausted when she had fallen asleep at nine. She turned to the nightstand where her phone was charging, rolling her eyes at the barrage of texts on it. Neal and Hook, as usual.

[_What are you doing today?] _

_ [I think we should get together.] _

_ [I found something interesting, you should come by and see it_.]

[_I got the apartment in order, you should see it_].

She tossed the device down again with a satisfying clunk. She had no interest in leaving her room to see them. She had a duty, and she will get to it. But not for _them_.

Finally, she heard it: the thing that had woken her from a deep slumber. Softly, and not demandingly … a knock on the door.

She groaned, pushing the comforter off her aching body. She leaned up, feeling her head swarm with a piercing pain. She sat, blowing out a low breath as she tried to get her bearings. She pulled herself up and walked to the door, swiping an absent hand across her notes on the desk. She leaned heavily against the doorframe.

She knew this was coming. The past day and a half she had been feeling the weight of her responsibilities and pressuring manifest into a tickle at the back of her throat. She now felt feverish, shivering in a swell of sickness that she just couldn't _afford_ right now. Not with so much left to do.

She pulled the throw blanket from the couch around her shoulders, coughing once as she followed the light rapping sound on the door. She passed a note in David's handwriting, alerting her to the fact that he had taken Mary Margaret and Henry to breakfast, wanting to let her sleep. She sneered, hating the idea that she was missing anything, even if it was just a breakfast.

She sighed. Carefully, she clicked open the locks, wincing as the noise resounded in her head.

When she opened the door, concerned dark blue eyes caught her gaze. Her stomach flipped against her rational mind before she placed a bored façade over her features. "Graham. What are you doing here?" she asked, her voice cloying with hoarseness.

A smile barely flicked across his lips and he raised a paper bag. "You haven't been looking like yourself. I figured you'd need these."

Her brow furrowed and she took the offering. She crinkled it open and her mouth parted in disbelief. She stared at it blankly for a few moments. Inside laid a large Styrofoam container of soup, a box of cold medicine, and a pack of tissues. "You … you knew I'd be sick? And you did this for me?" she asked, dumbfounded. She looked up, meeting his eyes again. "Why?"

"I'm still your friend, Emma," he murmured. He was rubbing the back of his neck in discomfort, looking awkward and out of place in the outskirts of her life.

She felt something inside her crack. "I'm sorry," she managed, feeling a sheen of tears form over her gaze.

He looked up at her again, eyes shading. "You're right. I shouldn't be here, you're not ready to see me," he mumbled, turning away.

Her hand shot forward, grabbing onto the softness of the leather coat that used to hang in the station well after his death. "No, that's not what I meant," she clarified, tugging him around to meet her again. "I'm sorry I've been pushing you away."

He shook his head, pressing his lips together. "No, you have a lot to deal with. I understand."

And she wanted to weep because she _knew_ he understood. He took fifteen steps back, not because he thought that would make her seek him out, but because he thought that was what she needed. That she needed him to go away or something. She didn't. She couldn't handle him, but she couldn't handle being _away_, either.

"Graham," she sighed, a caress over his name. "Do you … do you know what this is?" she asked, raising her wrist to his view.

He frowned. "It's your bracelet. You used to wear something different, something with little rivets in it, but similar," he answered simply.

She wanted to laugh at the simplicity. Yes, it was her bracelet. Yes, it replaced the cheap set that she'd bought at some little corner store in Tallahassee. She grabbed his hand, watching his gaze flicker over with _something_ as they touched for the first time in almost two years (one year, ten months, three days). It was electric, tingling, _right_.

"You're burning up, Emma," he commented, bringing the hand up to her forehead. She leaned into the cool touch, unsure if in comfort or just needing to feel more of him. "Here, let me get you something to take those meds."

He immediately came inside, rummaging through the cabinets to find a glass to fill with water. He popped two pills out of the blister pack he had gifted her, and held it out. She took it with a smile. He returned it before turning back to the sink.

"It's your shoelace," she said, drinking down the pills as not to see his reaction. She looked back to find his wide eyes.

"My shoelace?" he echoed, pressing a cool compress to her head. Those eyes were close, those blues and browns that trained on her with such affection and gentleness … she wanted to sink into him in this moment. "Why would you wear that?"

She wanted to say that she wore it to remember him. To think about how good he was to her and even to Henry, before she ever could be. To remind her of the man that ensured her life by saving her mother. But her mind was fuzzy and tired, and he was so close, and he smelled so good and familiar and like _home_, that she just spilled over, "because I love you."

He stiffened, looking down at her. Not a breath was exchanged from either of them until he finally released his in a tremulous pattern. A small smile appeared on his lips, fear and cautious hope in his features. "You must be sicker than I thought, Em."

_Em_. It had been so long since anyone called her that. Since the days of staying in the office after hours, building paper planes and complaining about paperwork and _Em, you are getting no better at this darts thing_. She was better now.

She leaned her forehead against his shoulder. He was achingly close. She couldn't believe that she had said that. It had been over a decade since she said those words to a man and not felt a tremendous amount of pain to accompany them. But she felt so safe in his arms, as he cradled her close. "I missed you," she admitted, feeling like that was one statement she could repeat over and over again and she wouldn't feel ashamed over. "I keep feeling like you'll disappear again."

His arms tightened around her. "I can't make promises, but this is all I want," he whispered.

"Stay," she pleaded, tucking closer to him, feeling the drowsiness set in.

"However long you want me to," he replied. A wry grin crossed his features, his face glowing with happiness. "I think I'm pretty available from now until forever."

She snorted, missing his humor that was so off-the-mark it turned funny despite itself. Her hand reached out, covering his chest. A wash of relief covered her to feel his heart pounding in time with hers.

"You broke my curse, Emma," he assured gently. "Only one thing strong enough to do that."

She looked back up at him, feeling a hesitant optimism fill her. It was something she hadn't wanted to voice, but she was almost glad he did. "No one else was in the running," she offered. The others may have fought for her, but that didn't mean she wanted to be with either of them.

"I guess I'm stuck with you, then," he chuckled into her hair, but the squeeze he put on her told her exactly how he felt. She smirked, closing her eyes tiredly as the drugs overtook her.

She woke hours later, finding herself sprawled on top of him, his heart rhythmically beating against her cheek. One hand rested on the small of her back, the other in her hair. She looked up at his sleeping face, over stubbled jaw and chiseled cheekbones, across slope of his nose and the brush of his lashes on his cheek. She took a deep breath in before resting her head back down again, tightening her arms around his waist.

"You're going to get me sick," he mumbled as he shifted to pull her even closer.

"I don't care. You're comfortable," she replied with a pout. Her head was thick was sleep, clouded with the meds. But part of her worried: what would happen if he got sick? Would his heart be okay? Would he be safe?

"We'll buy stock in Granny's soup," he said, unconcerned. "I hear it has healing properties."

A comfortable silence fell over them, as their breathing steadied again, eyes still closed.

"There's still a lot to do," he voiced after a moment.

"Together, this time," she said with a smile. It sounded so much more manageable than before.

"And you won't have to deal with a pirate or an ex breathing down your neck," a different voice piped in.

Emma's head shot up, finding her father grinning down at the couple. "David?"

He held up her phone with a mischievous smirk. "I may have _accidentally_ taken a photo of your nap and _accidentally_ sent it to the two most recent contacts on your phone. Whoops."

"Well, there goes avoiding a fight," Graham sighed before taking his hands off her, letting them drop to the couch.

Emma groaned, leaning up to find her head swimming considerably less than before. "I should be more upset," she groused.

David's face softened. "We've all been talking about wanting you to be happy, Emma. I think … I think you're finally getting there."

She turned to look at Graham's face again, and even in her flushed, feverish state, she knew. "Yeah, I guess so."

* * *

End


End file.
